Feast of Fools by Rachel Caine Page A

dark eyes didn’t blink. ‘‘Is this about Bishop? Why is he here? What’s he doing? Why are you so scared of him?’’
    Sam stood up, and there was something remote and cold about him just then. Something that reminded Claire, very strongly, that he was a vampire first.
    â€˜â€˜Go home,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll find Michael. I doubt he’s in any trouble, and I doubt it has anything to do with Bishop.’’
    Eve stood up, too, and for the first time, Claire saw her as an adult—a woman, facing him on equal terms.
    â€˜â€˜You’d better be right,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Because if anything happens to Michael, that won’t be the end of it. I swear to that.’’
    Sam watched them all the way out of the coffee shop. So did everyone else. Some of them looked worried; some looked gleeful. Some looked angry.
    But nobody ignored the two of them as they left. Nobody. And that was . . . unsettling.
    They got in the car, and Eve started it up without a word. Claire finally ventured a question. ‘‘Where are we going?’’
    â€˜â€˜Home,’’ Eve said. ‘‘I’m giving Sam a chance to keep his word.’’
    That, Claire thought, was going to involve Eve chewing the corners off the walls and pacing holes in the floor. And Claire had absolutely no idea what to do to help her.
    But that was basically what friends were for . . . to be there to keep you from doing the crazy.
    They’d been home for exactly one hour when the phone rang. Shane was sitting next to the phone— he’d appropriated the place, because he was worried Eve would keep picking up the receiver to check the line—and answered on the first chime. ‘‘Glass House,’’ he said, and listened. Claire watched every muscle in his body go tense and still. ‘‘Go screw yourself.’’
    And he hung up.
    Claire and Eve both gaped at him. ‘‘What the hell—?’’ Eve blurted, and lunged for the phone. She flicked the contact switch.
    â€˜â€˜Star sixty-nine,’’ Claire suggested. ‘‘Shane—who was it?’’
    He didn’t answer. He crossed his arms over his chest. Eve frantically punched in the code. ‘‘It’s ringing, ’’ she said—and then, like Shane, she went still.
    She sank down in a chair.
    â€˜â€˜Should’ve left it alone,’’ Shane said.
    Eve closed her eyes, and her shoulders slumped. ‘‘Yeah, I’m here,’’ she said tightly. ‘‘What is it, Jason?’’
    Claire caught Shane’s look, and she must have seemed suspiciously in the know, because he frowned at her. ‘‘Have you seen him?’’ Shane asked.
    Truth, or lie? ‘‘Yes,’’ Claire said, even though that definitely wasn’t the path of least resistance. ‘‘I saw him yesterday morning on the way to school. He said he wanted to talk to Eve.’’
    Oh, that look. It could have melted steel. ‘‘And you forgot about chatting with the local serial killer? Sweet, Claire. Very smart.’’
    â€˜â€˜I didn’t forget. I—never mind.’’ There was no explaining the vibe she had gotten from Jason, not to Shane, whose most vivid memories of the little creep had to do with Jason sinking a knife into his guts. ‘‘I’m sorry. I should have told you.’’
    Eve made a shushing motion at them and hunched over the phone, listening hard. ‘‘He said what ? You’re not serious. You can’t be serious.’’
    Apparently, he was. Eve listened another few seconds, and then said, ‘‘Okay, then. No, I don’t know. Maybe. Bye.’’
    She put the phone back in the cradle and stared at it. Her face looked frozen.
    â€˜â€˜Eve?’’ Claire asked. ‘‘What is